Four score and seven Marlborough
cigarettes ago, a Lincoln log chap
walked the patchy sidewalks handling
a raised umbrella to deter the
drenching sun stroke. He walked like his heels
had liquid suspension and you know
he just knew he was It.
There was big Big BIG news story about
his savored walk to the Capital.
But the logs rolled too soon -- he wrenched
to stake what's ryte, only profused the abnew
which was Papa plantation tobacco
handlers.
'Course smoke clogged his eyes.
